


Turn Thy Wheel, and Lower the Proud

by reine_des_corbeaux



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Awkwardness, Bad Haircuts, Haircuts, M/M, Martin's Seemingly Hopeless Crush, Missing Scene, Pining, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26021107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/pseuds/reine_des_corbeaux
Summary: While living in the Archives, Martin walks in on Jon cutting his hair after hours. Awkwardness ensues.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	Turn Thy Wheel, and Lower the Proud

Living in the Archives, on the whole, hadn’t been the terrible trial Martin had expected it to be. Sure, he was essentially living in a closet, and he’d had to remember that he couldn’t just wander blearily about in his boxers to make his tea in the morning, but at least he wasn’t being held prisoner by a terrifying parasitic worm woman who somehow had access to his texts. He was probably more overworked just by virtue of living in his place of work, but that wasn’t really a problem, all things considered. It could be worse.

Even so, he still wasn’t quite used to slinking guiltily to the men’s toilets to brush his teeth before turning in for the night. It wasn’t that late, really, but Martin liked to be out of the night cleaning crew’s way. The less visible his presence was, the less likely someone would be to question whether or not he was really supposed to be in the Archives after hours. Plus, the building itself was kind of creepy. For all the structure’s neo-gothic grandeur, the lighting was the same shitty industrial lighting you could find in any office building, and it had a tendency to start flickering alarmingly around half past nine. So, Martin crept down the deserted hall. Best to get back to his little storage room as soon as possible. 

Pushing open the door to the loos, he was startled by a strange, yet familiar noise, something rather like the sound of scissors. Definitely not a wormy sound, but still suspicious. Martin inched into the room, clutching his toothbrush like a weapon. Probably less effective than a corkscrew, but maybe it would work in a pinch. He turned towards the row of sinks, only to see a hunched human figure leaning into the mirror, armed with a pair of scissors, and carefully angling them towards his hair. 

“Jon?” Martin said, slightly incredulous, his voice echoing too loudly in the empty space. 

Jon started so violently that he closed the scissors, probably too high and definitely too quickly, and a clump of hair large enough that Martin could see it even from the distance between them fell away from his head. He turned immediately, pointing the closed scissors wildly at Martin. A tuft of hair far shorter than the rest of his fringe stuck up over his forehead. The rest of his hair, at least on the right side of his head, looked none too even either. 

“Martin, don’t _do_ that! Good lord!” Jon snapped, his voice wavering a little. 

“Why are you still here?” Martin asked. “And why are you cutting your hair?” 

“I was working late.” 

Jon crossed his arms, trying to look threatening as he glared over his glasses. The tuft of hair, sticking straight up, made him look a bit like a lopsided cartoon owl. 

“And cutting your hair?” Martin pressed on, looking down at the scissors. “Are those the office scissors?” 

“This is none of business. It was getting long, and this seemed like the best option. Didn’t have time to go to a barber.” 

Jon turned back to the mirror. Raising the scissors again, he snipped off another chunk of hair. From the way Jon seemed to be frowning at his reflection, Martin could tell that the cut probably wasn’t even. This probably meant Martin had two choices now: actually say something somewhat critical to his boss, whom he was kind of desperately in love with, or just go back to brushing his teeth and judiciously say nothing when Jon turned up for work the next day looking like he’d had a run-in with somebody’s lawnmower. 

“Uh, I could maybe help you with that?” Martin said. It had sounded more suave in his head, and less like the kind of thing you said to someone particularly hapless, or to a child making a particularly unstoppable mess. 

“Help me with what?” 

“Your hair. I could, um, even it out? Help you cut it?” 

Jon snorted. Sure, he’d been kinder to Martin as of late, but really, Martin knew, Jon probably felt the same way about him that he had before the worm incident. All the Jane Prentisses in the world couldn’t force Jon to ever return Martin’s feelings, and every spilled secret couldn’t make him accept Martin’s help. 

“Really,” Jon said. “That’s quite alright, Martin. I think I’m fine here.” 

Jon snipped off another piece of hair, then turned back to Martin. He’d ceased to resemble a cartoon owl, and his head was starting to look a bit more like a bird’s nest caught in a rainstorm. Whatever was going on definitely wasn’t remotely in the realm of “fine.” _At least he keeps his hair pretty short,_ Martin thought. _It’ll grow out before long._ There was a bit of a pang of loss in Martin’s chest-- Jon’s last haircut had certainly made him look… distinguished. ( _Really attractive_ , Martin’s traitor brain supplied as an alternative). Watching him butcher it seemed like a crime. 

“Alright then,” Martin said, because he couldn’t exactly argue with his boss over a bad haircut, even if they were both standing awkwardly in the loos well after work hours. 

Silence hung thickly in the air, punctuated by a final, definitive snip from the office scissors, and Jon brushing a bit of loose hair off his shoulders. The finished style was certainly shorter. It wasn’t any tidier, but maybe that didn’t matter to Jon. Even so, Martin wished he’d pushed a little further on the “getting help” subject, because Jon was definitely going to be embarrassed in the morning when he really gave himself a proper look-over. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jon said, still absently trying to smooth down the tuft left from the earlier mishap. “Tell me in the morning if you see any worms about.” 

He left, leaving Martin alone with the flickering lights and a small drift of grey-and-black hair piled in the sink. Martin examined it. It was probably beyond creepy, he decided, if he kept a lock. That was weird, stalker behavior even if you were under the age of sixteen, and definitely hopeless stalker behavior if you were, like Martin, an actual functioning adult with a serious job. Even so, he couldn’t help but be a little tempted. After all, Jon probably wouldn’t notice if he took any.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, sometimes you just have strong feelings about particular fandom appearance headcanons and need to express those feelings through the medium of fic. 
> 
> Originally written for the prompt '100 Words of Regrettable Haircuts' over on FFA. 
> 
> Title pulled from _The Idylls of the King_ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.


End file.
